Piece Work
by Enaid Aderyn
Summary: Miscellaneous unrelated one-shots, challenge responses and otherwise random products of the Dragon Age muse, veering from humor to angst - probably not in the same piece. rated M for language.
1. Groundhog Day

**Groundhog Day**

**.o0o.**

The little group of farmers murmured quietly amongst themselves as they waited near the burrow.

"Aye, well, he'll be seeing shadow like as not." Rafe squinted at the sun as it dodged in and out of the ragged cloud cover.

Gert blew into his fists, nodding. "Ayuh."

"Mild enough. Six weeks more of this makes no real bother."

"Ayuh."

"Ah, not like the winters we had when I were a lad." The old gaffer stamped his feet. "I mind me when the creature cast no shadow account of were no sun in sky at all. Words froze on the lips and fell to ground like stones, and us never knowing what was said until spring thaw."

"Hard times." Rafe spoke respectfully.

"Ayuh."

The bushes quivered and there was a slight fall of soil.

"Hsst! Creature be a-stirring."

In the expectant hush, the sounds of approaching grunts and scraping could be plainly heard from the burrow. The vegetation began waving wildly, and in a shower of earth and snow a figure clawed its way out of the hole just as the sun's rays broke through the clouds. It crouched, squinting vaguely, then lunged upright and darted away through the trees.

"_Freedoomm!"_

The men blinked after the fleeing apparition.

"That looked like the king."

"Naw. King wears no earring."

"Certain?"

"Ayuh. Not sure about the dress, but no earring, certain."

The gaffer hawked and spat.

"Best check provisions, lads. I mind me we've a hard six weeks ahead."


	2. Buddies

_You can thank and/or blame Suilven that this is seeing the light of day again. [pointed look] My response to Champion the Wonder Snail's 'Unlikely Wardens' challenge on CMDA: What would happen if Duncan had some kind of Grey Warden brain freeze, went on a drunken bender and ended up recruiting the most unlikely Warden/s ever? No restrictions on the laws of space and time._

**Buddies**

**.o0o.**

"So, so, so _Wardens_ right? I don' know why I di'n think of 'Scripting you before. I mean, yeah, you're always there f'r me, always, even when nobody else wants us 'round. Alla time, y'r a stand-up guy." Sniffle. "Comin' or goin', jus' a reg'lar stand-up bestest guy. Like a rock…"

"Commander, do you know where the Joining Chal- er."

"Heyyy… 'Join us'…um… 'Join'…um… 'Haul y'r arse on over'…"

"Commander, could you give me the Chalice?"

"Shure, shure."

"Thanks. Now could you please put your willy away?"


	3. First Contact (Akela)

**First Contact**

**.o0o.**

_"It saw me! Help! I can't look away!"_

Falling.

Dragging.

Akela fought for consciousness with his lethallin's frightened cry still echoing in his mind. Outside? How? The ground swayed under his back; his vision blurred; he hurt all over.

A bear loomed over him – no, infinitely worse, a _shem. _A shem with a beard like demented swallows had been building nests on his face peered upside down at the stricken warrior.

"Can you hear me?"

Akela tried to roll to his feet, but at the ripping pain in his head could only manage an inarticulate hiss.

"I am . . ." The stranger's expression changed and he hastily moved so he was no longer standing on Akela's hair. " . . . very sorry."

Akela spiraled into oblivion, grasping at a last coherent thought.

_". . . fucking shem . . ."_


	4. Rising Above

_For the wonderful and greathearted Suilven – the happiest of happy Birthdays to you always, my dear, and also to make up a little bit for that less than stellar Mother's day. ;)_

* * *

><p><strong>Rising Above<strong>

**.o0o.**

Neria rubbed her temples, squeezing her eyes shut.

_Sometimes . . ._

"I can't believe you did that! _Duncan_ would never have-"

_Sometimes . . ._

"It's up to you to represent the Circle, young woman. And to act with the dignity and honor befitting a Grey Warden-"

_I think . . ._

"I have heard stories of the mighty Grey Wardens. Clearly, they were overstated. You cannot be a woman. You are not acting according to your place-"

_. . . I understand . . ._

"Hey! Who stole my pants! _Uurrrpp!_"

_Just a little . . ._

"Oo, I saw that! Softie! You're a softie! Sten's a softie!"

"Be silent, bard!"

"Sooftiiiie!"

_Maybe a lot . . ._

"Morrigan's a total bitch. And evil. And mean. Zevran tried to kill us – you can't be serious, how can you trust him? I don't want to be king. I'm not going to take charge, oh, no no. Did I mention Morrigan's a mean, evil bitch?"

"Alistair is a naive fool. That can't have escaped your notice."

Bark! Bark! Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark-bark!

"Oo, but where I come from we think elves are _beautiful_ and we _value_ them. Such long eyelashes. Yours are lovely, you know."

"Asschabs! Haha! Pants!"

"Stop talking about my bosom!"

"Warden, help-"

"Warden, do-"

"Warden, fetch-"

"Mages, pigeons – squish!"

_. . . where Uldred was coming from. _She opened her eyes in time to see Morrigan fling her pack down in disgust. _Oh, Maker, that bloody dog._

"I know," she said as the witch approached. "Dead animal. Things. Dog. I'm _sorry,_ I can't help it, he _likes _you, he does it to me too." Off to the side she could see Wynne watching with lips pursed in tight disapproval, obviously preparing to deliver Admonishing Lecture #15-b, and Neria swallowed something that was either a bout of tears or a despairing scream.

_Both. Both is good . . ._

"Hmf." Morrigan folded her arms and studied the young elf in silence.

"What?"

"Your shifting technique."

"I – what?" The abrupt comment threw her already frazzled nerves further off balance. "What about my-?"

"You ate ALL the cheese!"

Both women cast their eyes upward at the despairing cry from across camp.

"'Tis shoddy. You would do well to practice far more frequently."

"Well, excuse me all to Void. I've got a few demands on my time."

"So I see." The golden eyes flicked coolly to Wynne, around the camp, and back to Neria. "Matters of great import, indeed."

"Now, just a-" Neria spoke defensively, but Morrigan had already turned away. After a few paces, she cast an unreadable glance over her shoulder before she shimmered into a hawk's form and sprang into flight.

"He ATE all the CHEESE! Neeeriaaaa!"

_Right. Practice. Now._

She concentrated on pulling _inward_ and _shaping _and flung herself upward in pursuit, her kestrel's wings flashing as they sliced the air to pull her away from the camp. Morrigan wheeled high above, and Neria angled to catch a thermal, rising in broad, lazy circles.

The air was like a river, buoying her effortlessly with currents running cool and warm as she tipped and tilted, supporting her even as she supported everyone else. The camp, the area, the terrain – all fell away and merged under her gaze to become one great masterwork of amorphous color and texture. No finicky details to shred her into dozens of pieces – just the wind and the sky and the world and herself, skimming within the surface. All one.

Her beak gaped as she cried an exuberant _kee-kee-kee-kee_, hearing Morrigan's long _keeeer _in response.

Sometimes flying away is the only way to come to yourself.

_And Morrigan would claim she's never given anyone a gift._

_Thank you, my friend. _


	5. First Person: Freedom

**First Person: Freedom**

**.o0o.**

"Take it easy, now."

I stopped pacing and stared at my jailer with wary surprise when he unlocked the gate. The muffled screams of friends and monsters alike shivered over my skin worse than the hinges' squeal.

"Easy," he repeated, moving into my tiny cell. He displayed his empty hands and then reached to work at my bonds, reassuring, calm, smelling of fear-sweat. "I'll leave no one helpless with these horrors running rampant. Whether I live or die, that won't be on my conscience." The moment the straps came loose I seized them and flung them away before he could change his mind. He earned my grudging respect when he didn't flinch but just backed out and stood aside.

A slow step, another, then a quick rush of movement and I was out of the cage, free. I readied myself in case it was some kind of trick, but he had already turned away, checking his inadequate weapons.

Good. Nothing to keep me in that bloody trap. And yet, eyeing the man, thinking of his fairness, I found myself hesitating. He glanced my way and shrugged.

"Go, or stay; it's your choice. I won't turn down your help in a fight, but I'm not such a fool as to think you'd be happy about it." He smiled suddenly and thumped my shoulder. "We both know you're meant to be somewhere else, yeah?"

I gripped his arm a moment in return before the monsters burst howling around us.

**.o0o.**

And now I lick my wounds and look back at the teeming wreckage from a safe distance. My former keeper had been pulled down almost before he had a chance to raise his blade, and I grieve for him. I accounted for his killers and all others that were stupid enough to get in my way. None were a match for me. Of course.

Enough.

I shake myself thoroughly, lick the blood from my chops and raise my head to test the wind before setting off in the direction I _know_ to be correct, as surely as I know where the sun's warmth lies.

I have a mage to find. _My_ mage.

**.o0o.**

.

_Inspired by the 'First Person' challenge on CMDA. Set in the 'Mabari & Magus'/'The Long Road' universe. _


	6. Of Etiquette and Efficacy (Akela)

**Of Etiquette and Efficacy**

**.o0o.**

"Akela!"

"We have company," Zevran murmured unnecessarily as he passed the cook pot to the Dalish warrior. Akela cast up his eyes and impaled a chunk of meat with excessive force.

"Hey!" Alistair skidded to a halt beside them. "Akela, you – I can't – you stabbed Leliana!"

Akela ignored the agitated human looming over him and deliberately licked sauce from his finger, nodding in approval at Zevran after a moment's consideration.

"You _stabbed_ Leliana with a _fork_!"

The elf took a bite, handing the pot back for Zevran to help himself.

"Why would you _do_ something like that?"

Akela chewed his food thoroughly before swallowing.

"I was using the knife to eat."

_"That's not what I meant!"_

"She, as usual, was hanging over me spewing gibberish about shoes, hairstyles and eyelashes. Also as usual, she refused to take numerous polite hints to _shut up_ and _go away._ When she crossed the line and actually tried to touch my hair I simply gave her some encouragement to desist."

"You sta—"

"It's just a flesh wound."

Alistair flailed. "You can't just go jabbing people with forks when they bother you!"

Akela shrugged.

"Circumstance," Zevran put in, "would seem to prove otherwise."

"No one asked you! Akela, she's, she's—"

"Pushy? Annoying? Batshit insane?"

"No! Well. Okay, but she's _upset._ What if she leaves?"

"Hm, yes. Imagine my despair."

"Come on, don't you think you should apolo—"

"I am _trying_," Akela growled, "to _eat_ my _dinner_, shemlen."

"But—"

"Zevran, are you using that?"

"Not at all." The assassin grinned. "Bide a moment, my dear Warden." He flourished a rag and ostentatiously wiped his fork clean before proffering it handle-foremost across a crooked arm. Alistair, suddenly aware that Akela's seated position relative to his own upright stance placed his . . . thigh . . . in a certain amount of danger, backed off hastily.

"Fine, fine. I'll just go talk to her. Calm her down. You know. Stuff like that." He flung up his hands and headed for Leliana's side of the camp.

Pause.

"I don't suppose she's leaving?"

"It does not appear so." Zevran was watching the scene over Akela's shoulder.

"Damn it. It's like trying to get pine sap out of your hair, only less pleasant."

"She is hugging Alistair. Ah, and now they have seated themselves for a cozy chat."

"More fool he. If he wakes up with his hair curled and his eyelashes in a jar he'd better not come whinging to me."

"Ah, but she was at least correct in her assessment of your beauteous lashes."

"Don't you start."

"I would never."

"Fucking lunatic shem."

Zevran nodded sagely and set his fork down well out of reach.

**.o0o.**


	7. First Person (Akela): Senseless

**First Person (Akela): Senseless**

**.o0o.**

I claw my way into consciousness and bolt upright, panting from useless fight-energy as the whining yammers of my Taint-filled nightmares grudgingly shred into silence. The bedroll is a shambles as usual, though mercifully whole; in my dreaming struggles, I've ripped the cover to pieces on two different occasions. It occurs to me, as I arch my back to pull on my breeches, that I'll have to sleep fully clothed when the winter sets in for earnest, else I'll fight away the blankets and freeze. Just as well neither the assassin nor I are inclined to nest after pleasure. The warmth would be welcome, but I'd undoubtedly awaken with my hands around his throat. What a waste.

I rapidly comb and braid my hair, seize a shirt and duck out of the tent into the dim pre-dawn light. Time to face the whining yammers of my shem-filled days.

The faint mist is welcome and cool on my skin as I move silently to the firepit in hopes of a few moments of peace before the others begin to stir. When I crouch to stir the embers into life, my thoughts return inexorably to the familiar track, revolving like squirrels chasing around a tree trunk.

It makes no sense.

No matter how I look at it, I cannot understand why the Keeper just bowed to the stinking shem Duncan's whims. There was only one of him and the entire Clan. Doughty warrior he may have been, but at a word from you, Marethari, he would have been bristling with arrows in a heartbeat. Yet when he undermined your authority, did his best to prevent our search for one of our own, my lost lethallin, you bowed and scraped and all but licked his arse. What did he say to you when he took you aside for that so-private conversation? Did he threaten you or the Clan? Did he have some hold over you?

Senseless. The manner of my death should have been my own choice. You clearly believed you could have kept the sickness at bay – and I'm not convinced he had nothing to do with my contracting it in the first place – but even if you couldn't, if my death was so inevitable, then I should have been allowed to end my days amongst my own kind. Or if I was a danger to the Clan then kill me, burn me and scatter the remains to nature. Why condemn me to die cut off from everything familiar and precious, alone in a mob of stinking shemlen?

Senseless, senseless. Why was Duncan so determined to take me when I was utterly, absolutely against going with him? If he was so in need of recruits why not take a willing candidate? If you believed his cause was so righteous why not offer anyone else the choice? For that matter, why take only one person if the need was so dire? After all, it seemed you couldn't stand in the way of his treating our Clan like his personal stockyard, like the shems treat our brethren in the cities.

Or, perhaps you simply chose not to? The blight-sickness burned through my veins, but I wasn't so far gone that I missed what flashed across your face when he made his "offer."

_Relief._

And then you put on a mournful expression and began mouthing about how it "broke your heart" to see me suffer and to think of sending me away. What, was I supposed to pat your hand and offer _you_ comfort? Even when I abandoned all pride (never again!) and begged you, _begged you_, not to cast me out, I was stunned to see it still meant nothing. Nothing to the invading Warden, nothing to you, Marethari, my Keeper, nothing to my Clan. You threw me to that treacherous shem like so much bait, and my people just stood gaping like a herd of blank-eyed halla while they watched him take me away.

No, I do the halla a disservice, for those noble beasts will always rally to defend one of their own against a predator.

I wrench a stick into pieces and throw them onto the fire to watch them burn to nothing.

A few days ago Alistair asked me why I bothered to fight the darkspawn if I thought the "nasty old shems were so awful."

"Because I'm not an idiot," I bit out, quickening my pace to leave the unspoken _like you_ hanging like an overripe fruit.

The shemlen are a plague on my people, make no mistake, and I'd like nothing better than to leave them to be wiped out, but obviously it wouldn't stop with them. Only a damned fool would think to ally with creatures that poison creation itself by their very existence. _And yes, that means you, you giant flapping lizard, so you can stop whispering into my dreams._

Besides, what else is there to do?

Nothing makes sense anymore.

Everything I saw of Duncan, right up until the end in Ostagar, gave me a picture of a lying, manipulative, obsessive if not outright insane shemlen. Duncan couldn't have been your respected friend; he must have threatened you, Marethari, surely? He had to.

Because if he didn't, if you willingly went along with everything he wanted?

_Then may Fen'Harel rend you and shit your soul over barren rock. _


	8. Ascent

_A much-belated and inadvertently timely gift for Shakespira, inspired by her shapeshifting Chasind Cloud Dancers in her wonderful __**The Lion's Den**__. This is meant to accompany my piece of the same name to be found at my deviantArt gallery: jbyrd123 dot deviantart dot com._

* * *

><p><strong>Ascent<strong>

**.o0o.**

Mallaidh stands on the promontory before this, her passage into true flight. Far below, the mists wreathe around the scattered treetops, which jut like pointing fingers from grey-blue palms of granite. High above, the clouds scud raggedly across the dawning sky, in which her brethren wheel silently, encouraging, waiting.

The wind plucks at her hair and tugs at her cloak, chill and surging, alternately drawing her on and pressing her back with capricious force. It riffles across her fingers which tighten briefly in response, squeezing the roll of doeskin she holds.

Pulling away the single thong binding, Mallaidh unfolds the doeskin a single turn to reveal a shining black feather.

_Crow. Messenger and guide; trickster and teacher. _She tilts her hands and the feather leaps ahead to spiral away on the winds.

Another turn reveals a creamy feather barred and spotted in earthy shades of brown.

_Prairie falcon. Patience to seek your goal; keenness to pinpoint it; drive to pursue it. _She tilts her hands and the feather spins away.

Another turn reveals a graceful blue-grey.

_Heron. Self-reliant, with the vision to see past the surface to the deeper truth. _She tilts her hands and the feather whirls away into the mists.

A final, careful turn uncovers a miniscule fan of iridescence.

_Hummingbird. Healing and dreams and renewal, and the impossible, precious joy of all that is life._ She tilts her hands and the bright scrap darts out, only to return on a vagrant gust and tangle inextricably within her hair.

Mallaidh laughs and raises her arms to let the hide and her cloak drop away. Clad solely in her self, in all that she is, she leaps up and out.

_The wind slashes at her skin with claws of ice and  
><em>

_the rocks plunge toward her and  
><em>

_the rocks fall away and  
><em>

_the wind surges under her pinions to bear her upward. _

_Her fellow Cloud Dancers call to her in welcome as she approaches._

_Through the mists._

_Into the light._

**.o0o.**


	9. Airam Reflecting

_This was a gift for the fabulous Ventisquear and her equally wonderful Airam Surana of 'Failed to Fail' and 'Leather and Ice.' Inspired by the detail from John William Waterhouse's 'Echo & Narcissus.' (Air-ified version to be found at: jbyrd123. deviantart dot com /gallery/35622371#/d4zm0ud )._

* * *

><p><strong>Airam Reflecting<strong>

**.o0o.**

The length of cloth, suited more to serve as window dressing than toweling, was stubbornly non-absorbent. Airam gave up smearing the wet around his skin (_stupid ugly white skin_) to scrub at his hair. _It's grown out already – time to chop the horrible stuff off again. Ugh – fine! _ With a muttered imprecation that would have had Gran pursing her lips, he dropped his arms. _Let the breeze do it. No one's around to see. Not like there's anything worth looking at anyway – not like I'm, oh, Zev, all gold and style and confident strength. Just the clown-colored, pitiful, mage-monster, that can't even carry his own pack or walk in the direct sun without frying._

He kicked irritably at the broad-brimmed farmer's hat and flung himself prone on the embankment, catching himself with an unknowing grace that was absent a mere month before. _And he keeps saying I'm – he keeps - like I'm - worthwhile. Me! Whatever for? Is he blind? _He raised his hand for a moody slap at the water and paused.

The shaded surface painted his reflection in opaque tones. Slope of shoulder, glimpse of back. Mouth and jaw set in determination. Eyes filled with hurt, wonder, and humor. No dramatic, unnatural whites or purples – just a transparent clarity of line and contrast. Just Airam Surana.

Air.

Himself.

_Is that what he sees . . ._

A water-strider skated across the image and he blinked, tossing his head to shift a lock of the despised hair.

_And he calls ME crazy._

He lowered his hand and gently stirred the water to banish the picture, trying without success to ignore the voice which whispered, equal parts resignation and hope, through the barricades heaped around his soul.

_Maybe . . . just maybe . . ._

**.o0o.**_  
><em>


	10. (Akela) Up to Scratch

**Up to Scratch**

**.o0o.**

"Akela, I know you're in there."

Apart from an irritable rustle there was no response. Encouraged, Alistair squared his shoulders and continued to address the dense thicket.

"Fine, be that way. I'm still going to have my say while you're sulking, okay? It's just— I mean, do you _have_ to be so, so _you_ all the time?"

There was a growl in return.

"See, that's what I mean! Why can't you be more, I don't know, more _approachable_? We're the good guys, in case you forgot."

_Hisss._

"Yes, we are!"

"My dear Alistair." Zevran cleared his throat, having approached unnoticed. "If I may—"

"No! You may not!" Alistair snapped. "I'm talking to Akela, not you, and no one asked you to come butting in!"

The assassin held up his hands and made a key-turning gesture over his lips before retreating a few paces, where he leaned against a tree to watch with folded arms.

"For instance," Alistair resumed after a final glare, "did you _have_ to just shoot that fellow in the eye yesterday without any warning? Well, okay, he did turn out to be heading an ambush, so bad example, but you get the point, right? Diplomacy? Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I want to take over the lead, no, not that, really. I just think your decisions, well. When a fellow makes a simple mistake and gives you a message to deliver, well, I'm sure he didn't know any better than to call you a tattooed savage knife-ear, but don't you think making him eat the letter and then telling him to deliver it himself by, er, _dropping it_ upstream from the recipient was excessive?

"After all," he continued over the answering incoherent snarl, "we're _Grey Wardens._ We're the heroes, right? We've got a duty to uphold. Honor. Just think how disappointed Duncan would be to see how his recruit was representing the Order."

_Fsssth-PAH!_

Alistair paled, then flushed.

"Did you just spit? You just _spit_, didn't you! Right, that's it! C-come out of there, right now!" He strode determinedly into the brush.

"_Gaaah!"_

He backpedaled frantically out of the brush with an infuriated wildcat attached to his mail and doing its level best to claw its way through.

_"Gettitoff! Gettitoff! Aaaah!"_

Zevran turned his head at the light step from behind and nodded a greeting to Akela, who approached to stand beside him, bow in hand and three brace of freshly-killed woodcocks slung over his shoulder. The Dalish Warden watched expressionlessly as Alistair flailed at the squalling bundle which had now gripped his arm and was briskly raking its hind legs across the metal with molar-shivering screeches.

"Is there even any point in my asking?"

_"AaaAAAaaa!"_

"Mm, no." Zevran considered. "No, I rather think not."

"Fair enough." Akela unlimbered his catch. "I'll go get these ready for the common pot."

"Allow me to accompany you, my dear Warden."

_"Aargh! Noo! Not the hair!"_

**.o0o.**


	11. Presence

_Written for the Cheeky Monkeys 'Love Returns' Valentine's Day challenge._

* * *

><p><strong>Presence<strong>

**.o0o.**

The hallas' feet whisper in the grass as they move about the meadow and Elora breathes gently into her pipe, working the sound into the quiet tune she sends drifting with her charges. Her gaze wanders from one to another and comes to rest on the wood beyond, where the early evening shadows stretch and tangle. She lowers the instrument to smile.

"I know you're here."

"You always do, _emma lath._" The dimness resolves into form, of leather and fall of hair brushing an otter-sleek curve of neck. Mithra steps out of the shadows and Elora savors her beloved's approach, the music of the huntress's warrior-grace a melody in its own right.

"We move out tomorrow to join the Warden's forces." Mithra's voice is fierce with anticipation. Elora simply nods, winding her fingers through Mithra's without comment, and the huntress squeezes her hand. "Hey. Shemlen hunters, forest spirits, werewolves: what's a mere Archdemon? The Clan will survive." She strokes the silvery white hair, brushing a thumb over Elora's lips.

"Just see to it that you do, beloved." Elora turns her head to press a kiss into the palm cupping her cheek and steps into the warm embrace.

**.o0o.**

They make the most of the night, of touches and gasps and murmurs of passion and love, lying with limbs entangled, clothed in dapples of moonlight and the pendants they exchanged long ago. And when the post-coital glow is abruptly extinguished upon discovering tangible evidence that a halla had made a different use of their little nook, their uncontrollable mirth at the sight of each other's expressions more than makes up for it, as does the subsequent prolonged and mutually intimate bathing down in the star-filled lake.

**.o0o.**

The assemblage of warriors departs in the morning, afoot in the silent mist with Keeper Lanaya at their head. They will not risk the halla amongst the human armies, if indeed the gentle beasts would have consented to leaving the forests. As Elora's place is with the herd, she stays behind along with the children, the hearth-bound, and a handful of fighters chosen by lot to keep them safe, whether here in the heart of the Brecilian Forest or on the flight north if the Blight advances unchecked. Surprisingly, the proud warriors had voiced little protest over remaining. Whether traveling to protect the land upon which they live, or staying to protect the future of the Clan itself, it is all one in the end.

Elora watches with her fellows as their Clan vanishes into the mist, fervent prayers to the Creators for their safe return on every tongue, memories brimming from every corner, fears and hopes trembling in every heart. Waiting, unknowing, will be a more fearsome struggle than any demon might offer.

**.o0o.**

Their lives become an anxious fugue, facing the immediate concerns of survival and constantly poised for news. The days slip into weeks, and the season has well turned when the younglings on watch raise an alarm which quickly becomes an excited cry.

"It's them! They're back!"

There is just time enough for the returning warriors to cry victory before there is a melee of embraces, of shouts and greetings, of wild exuberance and impassioned intensity. The confusion is all the greater for the strange faces in the party, Dalish from another Clan and city elves abandoning the shem life. Elora greets and touches friends and strangers alike with heartfelt delight, albeit with some distraction.

_I know you're here._ She moves eagerly through the crowd, craning her neck to scan for one particular face. _I know you're here. _A twinge of apprehension grows with her lack of success. _Please . . ._

For of course, not all the tears are of joy. Here, a father presses his little girl to his heart and tries to explain why her mamae did not come back to her. There, old Nashal covers his face with trembling hands while Keeper Lanaya and Hahren Sarel gently relate how his sons perished together, victims of an Emissary's fell magics. The Dalish strangers are the sole survivors of their entire contingent, perhaps the last of their Clan. None are left unscathed, whether the scars are carried outwardly or inwardly.

Cammen and Gheyna stand apart with Deygan. The young lovers notice her approach, directing the scout's attention to her, and Elora goes still inside at the looks on their faces. Her pace slows, groping blindly for her footing on the packed soil as if wading through stagnant water. Eventually she stands with them, but all her words of welcome fail and hover unspoken, shunted aside for one name.

"Mithra?"

Gheyna's eyes fill with tears while Cammen looks as woebegone as only he can, and they both look to Deygan who drops his eyes and tugs at the sling supporting his arm.

"Tell me." Her lips scarcely move.

_The running battle through Denerim, flanking the Wardens where the monsters swarmed the thickest. . . _

_The Archdemon itself descending like a malevolent storm front, vomiting sheets of searing violet flame . . ._

_The bridge shattering . . ._

_The fighters burning, falling . . ._

_The wall crumbling, folding in on itself, hurling clouds of grit and masonry in pursuit of the plummeting bodies . . ._

Each word pecks and shreds at Elora's dying heart.

"Did—" She falters, swallows, and continues. "You found her? Afterward?"

They shake their heads, and she allows herself a chord of hope.

"We searched for all our dead, but—oh, Elora, no, don't." Gheyna touches the other woman's hand unhappily. "The fire was so _intense_. And the debris pile, you can't imagine, it was . . . we recovered no one there. Nothing recognizable. Nothing . . . whole."

_...nothing whole..._

"_Lethallan,_ I'm so sorry."

_No, nothing whole. Not anymore._

**.o0o.**

The days slip into weeks which slide into a full turn of seasons. The Clan eases back into the rhythm of life, singing death into growth and enfolding the newcomers into its own. Elora drifts with her halla, Mithra's shade with her in every turn.

_Grace of movement, flash of limb._

_'Chok' of arrow striking target._

_Trill of laughter resolving into a distant hawk's keen._

_Dimness of shadow resolving into . . . shadows only._

The unquiet spirits of the Brecilian are no less present than the echoes of her beloved.

She cradles the pendant Mithra made for her, rubbing her thumb over Mythal's symbol, then bows her head and presses the round of leather to her heart.

"I know you're here," she whispers. "I know. I—" She folds in on herself, her fingers curling to grasp after pain and love.

**.o0o.**

Elora sits amongst the halla, silvery-white hides and hair alike glinting in the last rays of sunlight. A cluster of dried leaves follows an errant gust around the animals' legs and across the grass and Elora breathes into her flute, shaping the skittering rustle into her quiet melody.

She can hear the increased activity in the camp as the traders arrive, dwarves with whom Master Varathorn had formed a craftsman's bond while with the Warden's armies. Later she will see if they have any goods to pique her interest, but for now she is content to remain where she is.

"Elora?" Deygan's call has a peculiar timbre. She raises her eyes, mildly curious, to where he and Varathorn stand at the edge of the meadow. Their hands rest upon the shoulders of a third figure, and Elora bolts to her feet.

A tidal upsurge of emotion freezes her in place. Scream of joy, shout of laughter, sob of relief—what emerges is a sort of exultant hiccup before she claps her hands over her mouth to stare, wide-eyed.

The men press Mithra's arms and step back.

_Time enough to learn how she survived, how she fell into the sewers only to be sealed in by slabs of collapsed masonry. Time enough to learn of her time lost in the tunnels, injured, out of her mind in the dark. Time enough to learn of her eventual rescue by a party of Durgen'len seeking their own fallen and of her prolonged convalescence._

For now, all Elora needs is the sight of her beloved's form, the fall of hair brushing the shimmer-smooth expanse of scars winding along the curve of neck and teasing at the corner of mouth. She savors her beloved's approach, the hitch in Mithra's gait a beautiful syncopation to the melody of her living grace.

"All this time—" Mithra's voice is roughened, as one who has breathed flames and desperation. She winds her fingers through Elora's own. "You were what kept me going. In the dark, through the pain and the terror and the _waiting_. You, _emma lath_, thoughts of you, and us, and—" Her grip tightens, desperate, and her eyes fill. "_You._ Oh, _emma lath—"_

Tears run silver tracks along _vallaslin_ and they bury themselves in each others' embrace.

"I lo-lost your pendant. It burned—"

"It's all right—"

"If I'd never seen you again—I couldn't bear—"

"I know, _emma lath_." Elora turns her face into Mithra's hair, smelling pine and sweat, wood smoke and life, and presses her beloved to her heart.

"I know. I'm here."

**.o0o.**

**.**


	12. Love Returns

_Also written for the Cheeky Monkeys 'Love Returns' Valentine's Day challenge._

* * *

><p><strong>Love Returns<strong>

**.o0o.**

She was gone.

She was gone and he'd never see her again.

He'd long since taken out his anguish on the furnishings, smashing and scattering everything in reach, howling like some demented creature and sending the servants fleeing in terror. Now he could only lie in exhausted misery across his – _their_ - bed, breathing the faint fragrance of her hair that yet lingered on the pillows.

He would forgive her for forcing him into this fancy lifestyle. He would forgive her for abandoning him for that _elf_. He would forgive her for anything, grovel in apology for all the injuries he did her.

If he could only once more hear her laugh at his clumsy antics. If he could only feel her touch. If only, if only.

But now he was alone, and would be alone forever, because she was never, ever coming back to him.

Voices . . .

Could it be?

It was! He'd know her step , her sweet voice if it were in a crowd of thousands!

He sprang from the bed , stumbling over his own feet in his joy.

She was alive! She'd come back! She'd come back to him!

_"Holy Maker, look at this mess!"_

She was back!

_"Serah, we tried—"_

_"Oh, for—he even pulled down the paintings!"_

_"At least he had the good taste to shred Anders' manifesto."_

_"Ha very ha, Fenr—aargh! My bedroom!"_

_"Impressive."_

She was back! She was back! She was back!

Life was worth living again.

_"I was gone for less than an hour, you bloody animal!"_

**.o0o.**

**.**


	13. Intention

_Response to the Cheeky Monkey 'Consequences' challenge: Feynriel, Oghren, Denerim, "Do you think that was intentional?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Intention<strong>

**.o0o.**

"Nate and Carver should keep their thumbs up their own arse and out of my business." Oghren's voice cut across the vendors' chorus. Feynriel shrugged.

"They thought I could help." He lengthened his stride to keep up with the dwarf's determined progress through the crowded marketplace. "It's virtually unheard of for a dwarf to find himself in the Fade."

"You think that was _intentional_?" Oghren snorted. They stopped to make way for a stream of trotting mabaris, identical and each carrying a human infant by the seat of the pants. "I got yanked into the sodding unnatural place in the Blackmarsh on account of the company I keep. Same thing happened to Tahti during the Blight. You mages, always having to complicate things with your smoke and sparkles."

"Yes. Because it's such fun to have an entire religion determined to run a sword up your arse, and to have demons trying to possess you, and everyone you meet think you're some kind of terrifying freak." Feynriel tapped himself on the chest. "Do you think _that_ was intentional?"

"Heh. Point."

They stepped over a trash-clogged gutter where a nearby crowd of sickly elves harangued a Tevinter magister and his bodyguards. Feynriel pulled the edge of his hood forward.

"Except now you'd think someone left a door open in my head." Oghren kicked a charging bandit's knee out, spinning his axe and chopping down without breaking stride. "Might as well be hallucinating, only without the fun of getting drunk beforehand."

The mewing of the seagulls blended with the laughing enticements from the ladies of the Pearl, and human nobles lined the balconies, waving their arms and shouting in their unceasing, banal contention.

"Deshyrs. They're the same everywhere." The dwarf's pace slowed, came to a stop. "Well. Not all of them."

The armies milled in the field, a clanking, roaring mass against Denerim's smoking backdrop, swirling around a bubble of stillness at the gates where a small group made their final plans.

Bade their farewells, one by one.

"She was the best that ever came out of the Aeducan line, you know." Oghren spoke quietly, his gaze fixed on the Warden. Her white-gold hair, cropped helm-short, flashed in the ruddy light; even at this distance one could see the emerald glint of her eyes behind crooked nose, twice-broken and proudly scarred.

"She'd have been a shit queen. She knew that. Didn't want it but no one believed it. No, she was a warrior. Always a fighter, in everything, for everything."

"She was your friend."

"She had faith in a broken drunk who'd lost everything. Made me remember the man I can be. Tahti _got it,_ you see. What it's like when it all falls apart. At least I told her that much."

"You wanted to say more."

They watched her grip the Qunari's forearm as an equal, regardless of the disparity in their builds.

"Maybe. I wanted to, sure. I could have told her I—but we were going into battle." He straightened. "I held this gate for her. Swimming in guts and blood, and not a single soul under my command lost. And I knew she'd win through. This was _Tahti Aeducan_, sod it! Time to say what needed to be said after, right?"

"That you loved her."

Silent, Oghren watched the Warden ruffle her mabari's ears.

A shadow passed over the two men as the Archdemon soared overhead.

"She did it. Like I knew she would, she butchered that damned lizard like the Stone warrior she was. Only it took her with it, and then—there was no more time. No more words."

A tiny figure fell tumbling from the heights, over and over again.

"You could tell her now," Feynriel said gently. Tahti gave the dog a final pat and looked in their direction, meeting Oghren's eyes, and the old warrior caught his breath in pain.

"I—" He took a step, hesitated. "Is there any point? This," his gesture encompassed the field, "It's all just inside my head."

"Yes, it is." Feynriel put his hand on the other's shoulder. "But ultimately, that's the one place where we need to speak the truth."

**.o0o.**

**.**


	14. Join Us

_Many moons ago I had cause to adapt Millie Hawke's (Kirkwallop) personality into an AU character who, with the base elements of the Hawke origin stretched to the squeaking point, remained in Ferelden to eventually become a Warden post-Blight. That particular thought-exercise never amounted to anything, but at the time I did have fun describing to Reyavie how I thought Millie Dravec's Joining would have gone._

**Join Us**

**.o0o.**

Millie eyed the murky contents of the chalice thoughtfully.

"This reminds me of the time Levi and Jack bet me I wouldn't drink some of Ma's special liquid fertilizer – which was basically a puree of bull flop, horse-apples and dead night crawlers as I recall. So of course it goes without saying I took them up on it, and I tell you what: puke? "Projectile" doesn't _begin_ to describe it. They always said I lost the bet on account of, well, losing it. But considering I was facing Levi at the time, it was pretty much a win-win as far as I was concerned. Anyway, point being, this isn't the first time someone's asked me to drink some weird shit."

Millie smiled beatifically and angled herself so she was facing the Warden Commander.

"Cheers." With a shark-like grin she toasted him and took a hefty slug.

**.o0o.**

**.**


	15. (Akela) Proxy

**Proxy**

**.o0o.**

"Go away!"

Akela hissed impatiently and promptly made short work of the smithy door's lock to let himself and the others in. Owen glared with red-rimmed eyes from across the forge but seemed disinclined to move.

"Maker's Breath!" Leliana exclaimed. "It smells like a brewery in here!" She twisted her face into an exaggerated look of revulsion.

"Sommme-body's been driiiinnn-king!" Alistair added in a childish singsong.

Akela's lips tightened. And yet these idiots were continually aggrieved with his own disregard for diplomatic niceties. He ignored the pair behind him and kept his attention on the bulky shem propped against the far wall.

"You're needed to do your job."

"Right to the point, is it?" Owen raised a bottle. "I'll tell you what I told that bastard Murdoch. No."

"Why? Your people have even less chance to survive the night's attack with the current crap state of their armor."

"Why should I care? Eh? Why?"

"Wow, he sounds like Akela." The not so sotto voce comment from Alistair was rewarded by a giggle from the bard until Zevran pointedly cleared his throat.

Owen drained his wine. "They don't care about—what about my—" His voice thickened and he broke off, swiping a shaky hand across a face raddled as much by grief as liquor. "My little girl, my Valena. Lady's maid to the Arlessa and trapped up in the castle with all them demons and Maker knows what else. I tried—they turned me off. Said she was good as dead and there's no hope."

_"If he was as sick as you then he doesn't have a chance."_

"But I don't believe it! Not my Valena!"

_"No! You can't just abandon him! He's alive, I know it!"_

"So, no. You want me to help those bastards?" Owen tossed the bottle on the table and folded his arms. "You go find my Valena and bring her out safe. Promise me that. I know she's alive. She has to be. She's all I have. Without her—I don't give a damn what Murdoch wants—"

The shadows writhed in the ruddy light of the forge while Akela studied the smith without expression, the others shifting uneasily in anticipation of the certain outburst.

_The shadows from the juddering torch writhed in the carven walls. Merrill eyed the fragmented mirror in dismay while the shem Duncan addressed the Dalish warriors, repeating himself with the sort of indulgent forbearance commonly reserved for dealing with simpletons and overtired children._

_"I assure you, we are the only ones here."_

_"You can't possibly know that." Akela protested. He would have continued, but stopped perforce to hold back a wave of dizziness and rising bile. Perhaps it was the blight disease they claimed he'd contracted; more likely it was the overwhelming, sickening dread at the thought of his Tamlen lost and slowly dying. Regardless, it was all one unceasing nightmare._

_"I told you I already searched thoroughly and found no one."_

_"Did you." Fenarel's voice was sharp with suspicion. "You searched every nook and cranny with the kind of expertise needed to locate a hidden Dalish hunter who may be injured, unconscious and certainly doesn't have any reason to trust you." He shifted his stance, lending unobtrusive support to Akela. "That's interesting, considering you told everyone that you found Akela alone out in the forest and came rushing back here before he regained consciousness and told what happened."_

_"Perhaps it appears that way to you. Be that as it may, if your friend was here, he is not now."_

_"No." Akela said, voice tight. "We'll find him. He's here, or he got out and we can track him, or he was taken by those creatures."_

_"If that last is the case," Duncan replied grimly, "better to believe him dead."_

_"What?"_

_"What do you mean?"_

_Duncan shook his head. "Never mind. It's Warden business; you'll have to trust me when I say some things are best left unsaid."_

_"_Some_ things," Akela snarled, "are best _spoken_ in order to share critical information. Or is it just that you can't be bothered?" _

_"I assure you, there is no point—"_

_"Go fuck yourself, shem! We're not leaving without searching. You don't give a shit about Tamlen, I don't give a shit about you, and if you keep trying to block us I'll gut you with the rest of the monsters!"_

_"Do as you wish, then." The bearded shem uttered a long-suffering sigh. "I will return to wait at your encampment." He exited the room._

_"You can wait in a bear's rectum," muttered Fenarel. The uncharacteristic comment, more something Tamlen would have said, elicited a sound part laugh, part gasp of pain from Akela. Fenarel glanced at him in concern. _

_"I'm fine. Lethallin, I . . ." Akela hesitated, groping through the fog of desperation for words. "Thank you."_

_"He's my friend, too, lethallin." Fenarel stroked Akela's cheek once, gently, and then called Merrill to join them._

"So? Will you find her?"

The banked embers of the forge reflected in the Dalish Warden's pale eyes.

"I will."

"Oh, come on, Ak—wait, what?"

"You what?"

Ignoring the incredulous outburst behind him, Akela continued. "You have my promise. If she's there to be found, I'll bring her out. Or at worst, I'll bring you proof of her death. Either way, you'll know."

The old human's lips trembled, then he firmed them and straightened.

"Right. Then I'll get busy."

"Give me a good description of her. After all," Akela added dryly, "you shemlen all look the same."

Some few minutes later the group departed the smithy, blinking in the sunlight, and headed for the village square.

"Wow, Akela, I—I'm impressed," Alistair enthused. "That was really nice of you"

Akela's lack of response resounded.

"Even if it might be hard to do. But wow. I didn't think you had it in you."

The silence from the elf was deafening.

"I guess it just took a little time for you to start softening up."

Akela stopped walking.

"Ah, right. Shutting up now."

"Good idea."

.


End file.
